Strange Birds Flock Together
by staringatstars07
Summary: It'd been a long year for one Stan Pines. (End of the Twintale series)


It'd been a long year for one Stan Pines.

First, he got a phone call telling him that his grandniece and nephew had gone missing, and then, after he'd already hopped on the first flight to the middle-of-nowhere town Shermy's kid had moved them to, it turned out they were not only fine, but had also freed an entire underground community of monsters, and by doing so, had singlehandledly provided evidence of the supernatural on a scope not even the Blind Eye could contain.

Unfortunately, the experience had left its marks. None that could be seen, of course, or Stan would have dusted off his brass knuckles ages ago, but the kids refused to sleep in separate rooms, refused to ever let the other out of their sight. As a result, their parents decided that the best thing for them was time, and so their summer trip to Gravity Falls was delayed indefinitely. It was something the whole family needed, really. Time to heal, to recover, but Stan would be lying if he said he wasn't disappointed, and his own loose brand of rules stated that he keep the self-deception to a bare minimum – just enough to get him out of bed in the morning.

Every cent he could spare went to getting those kids the help they needed to get on their feet again, which meant that his plans for activating the portal had been delayed by a year, as well. But Ford had waited for thirty years, already.

Surely, he could afford to wait one more?

It was a thought that kept him up at night, not tossing and turning restlessly but staring blankly up at the wood plank ceiling like it was his first night in the Mystery Shack all over again. Without the constant bellyaching of the kids he'd hired to work in the shop of his little tourist trap, there's nothing to distract him from painting vivid pictures on the inside of his skull of the million ways in which Ford might have died, already. If Ford, supernatural-fanatic that he was, had still been around, he would have found a way to help Dipper and Mabel with whatever it was they were going through, but he wasn't, and Stan couldn't, not without revealing what he knew to the Society, though not even that would have stopped him if he actually believed anything he could do or say would help. But what good was advice from a guy that pushed his brother through a portal and then spent the next three decades living in his house?

Over time, his doubts faded, however, replaced by grim acceptance and relief, because starting around Summerween, kids started going missing, only to turn up days later, covered from head-to-toe in old, leftover candy and babbling worse than Fiddlesticks on a bad day.

The fact of the matter was Gravity Falls just wasn't the place to get your head straight. Even he'd only managed to keep the Blind Eye off his back and most of his sanity by pretending the supernatural didn't exist, and the jury was still out on whether or not he'd succeeded with the latter.

Fat load of good that did him now, though.

For all he knew, the Society had disbanded after the Mt. Ebott monsters let the cat out of the bag, but he doubted it. Most likely, they were still causing trouble, still finding some excuse to scramble people's brains.

A little later, the Northwest Mansion was attacked by the vengeful ghost of a lumberjack that had died during a flood just outside their locked gates. The entire town could hear the screams of the filthy rich snobs inside as they were slowly transformed into wood statues. And Stan had listened, standing in the crowd gathered around the mansion like all the rest, until a sudden recollection of a snuck-up blond-haired brat with too much make-up and a bone to pick with the world spurred him into action. He'd vaulted over the gate like he was twenty-three again and running, always running, with a journal and a mirror tucked under his arm. Then he sprinted through the courtyard, towards the racket, and slammed his shoulder against the locked doors, shouting for someone to let him in so he could save the little girl he'd once caught trying on his tourist hats behind the rack, the girl who sometimes inexplicably flinched when customers walking through the front door triggered the bell, at least until Stan decided the constant ringing was getting on his nerves and took the damn thing down.

But by the time he got the doors open, it was too late. The screams had died down to a single point, a child in a beautiful turquoise dress crying at the feet of a pair of wooden statues locked into distorted expressions of terror.

Dropping the mirror on the ground – it was useless now, anyway – Stan mentally added the events of that night to the top of his long list of failures and carried the girl home with him. She didn't protest, just continued to cry against his chest until eventually she fell asleep.

He gave her a room in the attic, the one he'd initially prepped for the twins, and paid her more than minimum wage to help keep the Mystery Shack in working condition. Stan didn't question where the majority of the money went, or why the Mystery Shack kept receiving letters from the descendants of the lumberjacks that drowned during the flood, and he certainly didn't try to peruse the contents before handing them over so that she only received the thanks and not the bitter invectives she could honestly do without. But she was stubborn, almost as stubborn as he was, and knew when he was hiding things from her.

It didn't stop him from trying.

Wendy and Soos were good for her, though, and the work provided a good distraction. It wasn't long before she became yet another part of the weird, grumbling, lazy collection of misfits he'd somehow managed to surround himself with.

When next summer rolled around and Mabel and Dipper were walking through the front entrance of the Mystery Shack for the first time, it was to find Wendy painting her nails puke green behind the counter, Soos humming the theme song to Ducktective while he switched out a light bulb, and Pacifica Northwest, the wealthiest teenager in Gravity Falls, sweeping the floor with her lustrous platinum hair tied back with a rag and an apron over her clothes, all while muttering mutinously about the legality (or lack there of) of child labor.

She and Dipper didn't exactly hit it off. Pacifica was always awkward with kids her age, but even she should have known better than to call Mabel's sweater tacky. Still, Stan didn't bother to correct Dipper when he suggested after a tiff with her that the mirror cinched to her waste was for vanity, knowing that Pacifica preferred it when he let her fight her own battles. Instead, he offered some sage advice about making assumptions, and left it at that.

He hadn't seen the twins since they were small enough to fit in the palm of his hand, and now they were walking, talking, human beings with personalities that differentiated and united them. Sure, they weren't him and Ford, but as much as Stan tried to fight it, it was hard not see some of Ford's typical nerdiness in Dipper, and his own free spirit in Mabel, even though she was already better, kinder than he'd ever been.

There was something off about them, though. Sometimes Dipper stared at his hands like couldn't recognize them. When that happened, Mabel asked him short, simple questions: "Do you want a glass of water?" A nod. "Do you want to go back to bed?" Another nod. "Okay, wait here with Grunkle Stan. I'll go get you some water and a blanket."

Things like this weren't exactly uncommon in some of the circles he'd run in. Stan had gotten involved with the wrong crowd more than once, seen bad things done to good people and the marks it'd left on them.

But he never imagined, not in a million years, that he'd be seeing those marks on his own family. Things like that were what made an old man like him want to take names and start swinging.

Except the monsters were supposedly just _misunderstood_ , and Mabel kept a photograph of them in the living room, so giving in to his first impulse was out of the question.

It was after a long day of ripping off gullible, unsuspecting tourists that he finally collapsed into his armchair at around midnight. It released a cloud of dust the second his weight compressed the cushion which had him desperately muffling himself as he tried not to hack up a lung loud enough to wake the shack's other inhabitants, the ones who didn't have to deal with back pain and a sciatic nerve that was downright spiteful.

Groaning, he reached for the picture frame on his right, then turned it over in his wrinkled, calloused hands. Every monster in the photo was wearing a sweater with Mabel's M.O. written all over it.

For one, the dapper-looking fire beast standing in the back of the group photo was – somehow? – wearing a sweater with _Hot Stuff_ knitted over his chest. On either side of him were too skeletons, one tall with a goofy grin and a fire engine red sweater that read, _You got a bone to pick?_

\- and a smaller one with a blue sweater that read, _Cuz I have 206_.

There was something about the second skeleton that set his teeth on edge, a sharpness about his features that felt oddly like staring into a mirror. If Stan had to guess, he was staring at a con artist like himself… minus the skin.

But there was affection, too. A fondness that couldn't be faked.

Stan settled back into his armchair.

A con artist with a heart, then. Those weren't so bad.

Overshadowing them all was a big guy, with floppy ears, white fur, and huge horns sprouting from the top of his head. He seemed to be the same type of monster as the elegant goat lady standing beside, except while her sweater was very simple, a pale lavender with a large heart on it, his quite clearly said, _Kids these days goat nothing on me._

Sure that Mabel had gotten help with that one, Stan barked a laugh, momentarily forgetting that the kids were sleeping upstairs, though Pacifica had moved to the basement after Dipper found Ford's secret bedroom and Stan had done some emergency cleaning to make certain there weren't any other body-switching rugs lying around or the like.

He rubbed away some dust at the bottom corner of the photograph to make out the robotic diva in black and purple with a sparkly sweater that read, _I'm a luxury few can afford_ , and what must have been its friends, a yellow lizard with glasses and a semi-translucent ghost that each wearing a sweater which simply said, _The few._

It was the twin's matching outfits that caught his eye, though – even more than the scaly blue thumb and shock of scarlet locks slightly obscuring the photo – because _We went to Mt. Ebott and (didn't die) **survived**_ read like a rather worryingly morbid amusement park souvenir which, without the proper context, he hadn't the slightest clue how to deal with.

Pumping them for answers didn't work. The kids shut their mouths quicker than triggered bear traps whenever the less-than-savory aspects of their adventure reared their ugly head. With frustrated, directionless anger burning a hole in his chest that felt uncomfortably similar to helplessness, he set the picture down with a scowl.

Then he heard it coming from upstairs, a soft, muted crying that broke his shriveled old heart into pieces.

Pain forgotten, he rushed upstairs to find Mabel hunched over a pillow, curling towards herself as she mashed her face into the fabric. For a brief moment, Stan was too shocked to do anything other than hover awkwardly in the doorway. He'd happened upon Pacifica in a similar state once or twice and tried to help her through as best he could, but he was dreadfully amateur at it, and sometimes he wondered if Pacifica didn't force her tears to dry to spare them both any futher embarrassment, but he'd seen how Mabel helped her brother… and he'd been taking notes.

After coughing once to alert her to his presence, Stan waited until she raised her red, puffy eyes, then said with deliberate slowness, "Hey, sweetheart. I'm going to get you a glass of water." He jerked a thumb towards the staircase, though he wasn't looking forward to climbing it a second time. "It'll take me two minutes. Tops." A wink. "One if I take the steps two at a time." And most likely suffer in the morning. "Would that be okay?" He waited. No answer. Just an unwavering watery gaze. "Do you want me to stay?" Hesitation. Then a slight nod. Stan tried not to let his relief show. "Okay, sweetheart, I'll stay."

Big, fat drops rolled down her cheeks, and he shuffled forward to her bedside, forcing down a wave of panic at the sight of his perpetually cheerful grand niece crumbling in front of him. "Hey, come on, no need for waterworks." He scratched his neck, glancing to the side though his eyes kept finding her. "I'm not going anywhere, kiddo."

Mustering his courage, because apparently facing down an angry mob filled with unsatisfied customers was nothing compared to the terror of comforting a little girl, Stan rested a heavy hand on her slender back, felt the subtle quivers beneath his palm, and then set about moving his hand in soothing circles until her harsh, shallow breaths gradually began to lengthen and deepen into something approaching calm.

When the worst of it seemed to be over, she offered Stan a quiet, grateful nod, to which he responded by looking pointedly at the Dipper-shaped lump under her covers. Lifting the edge of her blanket to reveal a mop of disheveled brown hair lying on the pillow, Mabel quietly explained, "He comes over sometimes when I'm having a nightmare."

Stan nodded. "He's a sound sleeper, isn't he?"

"Last night was his turn."

Oh. That explained why the kid was falling asleep in his flapjacks that morning.

There was little space on the mattress for him to sit, and Mabel couldn't exactly scoot over without jostling her brother, so he sat himself down on Dipper's empty bed, ignoring the way it seemed to protest at his weight with a long-suffering groan. Scrubbing a hand over the stubble on his chin, Stan asked, thinking back to all those therapy sessions the twins had supposedly been to, and how much their parents had claimed they'd been improving in their bi-weekly conversations, "Did those hacks do anything for ya, hun?"

Not quite looking at him, Mabel offered a small shrug. "A little, but I couldn't exactly tell them everything."

"You can tell me," he said quickly, earnestly, his desire to help overriding his caution.

But just as quickly, Mabel replied, "You wouldn't believe me."

And Stan could have laughed. Or cried. Or some gross mix of the two. How often had he let himself be trapped by that very reasoning? How many terrible mistakes had it let to? But she regarded him with that same weariness and distrust he'd gained after a decade on the run, and it made him want to snap, to rail against whatever fate led to every kid living under his roof staring out at the world like they'd already seen too much of it to even really be called kids, anymore. "Try me, Mabel." He let his mask come down so she could see how absolutely serious he was. "I've seen some strange things in my life." But most importantly, he knew a liar when he saw one, and Mabel was no liar.

She could tell him the sky was raining puppies and he'd go and get a net.

It happened in starts and stops and hiccups, but eventually, he had a picture of two very lost, very frightened kids wandering around in a strange place with monsters that were often just as scared as they were. And if there's one truth in the world, it'd be that fear leads to conflict. They hurt others and were hurt, but more than that, they were lied to. Manipulated,

Here, her expression grew pained, twisting into a grimace that he'd never expected or wanted to see. He clenched his fists at his sides, willing them not to shake.

More than anything, he wanted to storm off, calm down, clear his head, except something told him that if he did that now, she'd never open up to him again, and so he stayed.

The truth was he loved the twins with everything he had, everything that kept him sane and whole, and some things that didn't. But that didn't mean he could fix this. The best he could do was listen to what she was ready to tell him, even if it was frustrating to know he wasn't getting the whole story, and be there when they needed him, so instead of booking another flight to Mt. Ebott (or punching Preston in the face again because the guy was made of wood and the splinters in his knuckles were worth it) he waited until her well of words ran dry, slowly walked over to her side of the room, gave her mussed bedhead an affectionate tousle, and then wrapped his arms around her.

She was so, so small. "It never fails to surprise me how brave you both are," he told her, having never meant anything more in his life. Then with a wink that dragged a watery snicker out of the girl, he added, "This old man had better step up his game if he's got any hope of keeping up with you two." Or three, if he counted the spitfire sleeping downstairs.

Okay, five, but only because he was sleep-deprived and feeling generous.

By the time they finally got around to wishing each other goodnight, Mabel felt considerably lighter. With her lips quirked in a happy smile she settled down under the covers to find that Dipper was actually awake. She rolled on her side with a worried frown, "What's up, Dipdop?"

He stared for a moment too long before blurting, "Have I ever told you you're my favorite sister?"

Her eyes widened before a startled giggle escaped. Grinning, she nudged him with an elbow, "Not as much as you should," and all the tension drained from his face and shoulders.

A firm knock at the door forced them to leave the nigh uncomfortably warm shelter, though. Grumbling incoherently under his breath, Dipper yanked the door open, "What is it, Grunkle…"

Standing barefoot in a purple nightgown, Paicifca Northwest regarded the pair of them with a pillow tucked under her arm, "Let me sleep with you." It wasn't a request. She shoved her way inside before Dipper could decide whether or not he was going to shut the door in her face, then dropped her stuff on top of his bed before hastily sliding under the covers.

Following Dipper as he trudged grumpily back to her bed, Mabel cheered. "Yay, sleepover!" Until Grunkle Stan shouted for them all to go to sleep already and she settled sheepishly under the covers, a small smile feeling right and real on her lips.

That night, no one jerked out of sleep with a shout. There were no nightmares or tears, no grief or loneliness. They woke when the sunlight streamed through their window to hair that stuck up in odd places and eyelids glued shut by sleep, to laughter, gentle teasing, and mildly burned toast waiting for them on the kitchen table with milk and orange juice.

After breakfast, Wendy invited them to come with her to the pool she'd worked at as a lifeguard, before Soos filled it with training dummies and nearly gave her supervisor a heart attack, and they all enthusiastically agreed, even Pacifica, who quietly left the table to get her bathing suit and sunscreen.

On her way out, Mabel spared the photograph a single, lingering glance, before rushing outside to catch up with Dipper and Pacifica after they half-heartedly threatened to leaver her behind.

Although they were gone for now, banished by the company and the daylight, there was no telling when the nightmares would return, or the loneliness, or the fear, but when it did, none of them would be facing them alone.

Not if their awkward family of misfits had anything to say about it.

* * *

 **A/N: Thank you so much to everyone who read this series from the beginning to the end. I'm sorry it took me this long to finish, but now that it's done, I hope you enjoyed seeing how things changed.**


End file.
